


dancing with myself

by glitteratiglue



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Bucky gave himself a hand (+1 time he didn't need to).</p>
            </blockquote>





	dancing with myself

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to a whole lot of Bon Iver and stumbled over some Bucky feelings. Despite the vaguely humorous premise, this ended up being less about self-love and more about self-loathing, because, well - it's Bucky, and he's an angsty little bean.

**1.**

Bucky's never been much of a good Catholic, not from the first time Sister Mary Abigail rapped on his knuckles with a ruler for not paying attention in class.

Scratch that: Bucky's never thought of himself as good.

He tries, he really does, but at heart, he's too much of everything: always has been. He laughs too easily, has a quick temper, wears his heart on his sleeve and kisses more girls than he probably should. His sins are numerous. Bucky often wants things he can't have, letting jealousy and envy snake tendrils around his heart, and then there's the worst one: he lusts _._

That's how he finds himself here, in the freezing communal bathroom of their tenement floor, pants around his knees, one hand working over his cock while Steve sleeps down the hallway.

Bucky gasps out a breath and shoves a hand over his mouth, trying to keep quiet as he drags his palm over the head of his cock and spreads the slickness there. The worst part is that his mind's somewhere else; in his mind's eye, it's Steve doing this.

He's locked in this tiny room, thinking about his best friend, about Steve's delicate artist's fingers wrapped around his cock. Bucky pushes up into his hand and strokes himself with steady movements, pretending he can feel Steve's mouth on his neck, heated and wanting.

Biting off a whine, Bucky pumps his hand faster over the length of his dick, imagines sinking to his knees in front of Steve and sucking him off. The thought's unbidden and filthy beyond belief, and it almost makes Bucky explode right then and there. He'd taste every inch of Steve, run his tongue over the length of him and hear every sound he made.

Maybe Steve would be loud, would moan and cry out Bucky's name while he sucked him down, fingers tightening in his hair. Bucky would want to see the lazy expression on Steve's face, after - and it's not as if he hasn't seen it before, that surreptitious smile that Steve has after one of his own midnight trips down the hall - to know that it's _him_ who's wrecked Steve completely.

Right before he comes in a hot, messy rush, Bucky knows he would gladly burn in hell if it meant he got to have Steve, even just the once. He leans back against the wall on wobbly legs, reaches for some paper with a shaking hand to clean himself up.

Bucky's screwed, he knows it.

No getting away from the fact that he's completely and utterly gone on Steve Rogers. He'll just have to do a good job of hiding it.

 

**2.**

There's mud inside his socks, his boots, under the hem of his shirt and in his ears. His face is streaked with it. Nothing but fucking mud and dirt and cold for days while they've held the line. No new orders yet.

Bucky shifts under his threadbare blanket, glances across the cramped tent to see if Private Daniels has stopped shaking like a leaf. He looks to be asleep now: that's a small mercy.

It's been a bad day for Sergeant Barnes: losing his communications officer, Joe Bankowski, to an unexploded shell sunk deep into the treacherous mud. And sure, Bucky's rank doesn't give him that much responsibility, but the staff sergeant wasn't there. Bucky was, and this one's on him.

Daniels had put up a pretty good front until they turned in for the night. Then he'd started to cry, wetting the front of Bucky's shirt, his fists pummelling at him while he choked out: _“I'm sorry, Sarge, I'm sorry, but me and Joe grew up together, he was my best pal and -”_

Bucky had wanted to shake him, tell Daniels to pull himself together; he couldn't have even one man giving less than his absolute best, not when all their lives depended on it. But then he thought about how it would feel to hold Steve's limp body in his hands while the life bled out of him, and his insides went cold. Bucky put his arms around the kid and let him soak his jacket with angry tears until he quieted at last.

He feels terrible about it, not least because Bankowski had been a dab hand at fixing their shitty old radio. HQ are sending another comms specialist, from a segregated unit due to manpower shortages. The others grumbled until Bucky had slammed his tin mug down on the table and told the lot of them to shut the fuck up, that this guy came with a ton of recommendations and would do his job like anyone else.

Bucky is empty and muddy and dirty and horribly alone - all that with another man breathing softly not three feet from him. He's never truly been alone since he joined the army, of course, but that doesn't mean he's not lonely, just the same. It's the sharpest kind of loneliness, the sort that can't be quenched by camaraderie or laughter or Dugan's stupid pranks, because it's _Steve_ he's longing for.

Wanting what he can't have: that's always been his weakness, from day one.

Bucky's never thought of himself as good.

Sure, he might be decent with a rifle and not half bad at protecting the men under his command, but he's got a feeling he wouldn't be considered good at either today. His hands are trembling, a man has died today on his watch, and Bucky feels like shit. The events of the day have left him feeling hollowed out from the inside. It's not the reminder of his own mortality that bothers him - he figures one day his number'll be up, just like any soldier - but of what he'd leave behind.

There are memories that Bucky treasures beyond all others, precious secrets he keeps close to his chest, that he'll likely take to his grave whenever he goes. They all involve Steve, and that doesn't surprise him as much as it might.

Eight months ago, the night before Bucky went to basic, Steve had climbed into his bed and kissed him with a lazy smile, like it was no big deal at all. And Bucky had kissed him back with a needy hunger, shucked his pants off until there was nothing between bare skin and Steve's cock, hot and thick against his thigh. He'd put his mouth on Steve that day, the way he'd always dreamed about, and maybe he didn't know what he was doing at first, but it was still the best thing ever. Steve was so fucking responsive; he'd tugged at Bucky's hair and whispered encouragements until he came down Bucky's throat with a quiet whimper that near broke Bucky apart from the inside.

Bucky feels his cock start to wake up at the mere thought of Steve's sweat-slick skin on his in the baking heat of a New York summer. Maybe he's in a tent in Italy, freezing his ass off, but he can use this, can draw a bit of comfort from the memory. He slips a hand down his pants and starts to stroke himself slowly, making sure to be quiet, to avoid the friction sounds of his hand against the fabric.

Six months ago, Bucky had finally gotten up the nerve to pull the Vaseline out of the drawer and show it to Steve, who'd reddened but nodded. He'd pressed his body into Steve's back in a long line of heat, his heartbeat spiking as he pushed inside, fucking him with graceless, sloppy movements, but it was perfect just the same. Steve came with a soft whine and a few drags of Bucky's hand over the head of his cock, and Bucky nearly passed out from coming so hard.

Bucky swallows hard and speeds up the careful movements of his hand, trying to slow his heavy breathing, keeping his jaw locked so as not to make a sound.

They'd only had a handful more nights together before he shipped out. Bucky would take his time over it, lay Steve out on his bed and kiss him all over, press slick fingers into him until he was loose and moaning for his cock.

With another jerky thrust into his hand, Bucky comes, too quickly for it to really feel all that good, but it's a release just the same, and the tightness in his chest softens. Bucky blinks away moisture in his eyes and there are tears on his cheeks, because he's aching for Steve.

He can pretend all he likes, but nothing less than Steve and him for the rest of their lives is ever going to be enough. There it is: the desperate, sad, God's-honest truth that Bucky's been trying to hide from himself.

Bucky removes his hand from his pants and cleans it off with an old oil rag. His body's relaxed enough from the orgasm that he falls asleep quickly, trying not to think of everything this war's taken from him.

The next morning, Daniels is subdued but thankfully says nothing about the previous night's outburst. He's back to being a soldier, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief at that.

“Your new comms officer's here, Sarge,” says Dum Dum later, bringing him a cup of shitty coffee that Bucky accepts with a smile. He looks up from the report balanced on his knees to see another man coming through the tent flap.

“Private Gabriel Jones, reporting for duty, sir.” The man salutes, and Bucky can see the hint of easy laughter behind those guarded eyes.

He's going to like Jones, he can tell.

 

**3.**

Looking around at the singing patrons of the pub, Bucky knows he was never supposed to be here, it's all wrong. He's dead already; he should be dead.  
  
His rightful place is back on that table, chanting his rank and serial number while they shot his veins full of ice and wicked away the blood to leave him burning under his skin. But it's no trick, somehow it was _Steve_ who came to rescue him, his strong, capable hands ripping the straps free. Bucky stared at the hands and he didn't know them, but then found himself looking up at a sharp jawline he'd know anywhere.

The worst part of it is that Bucky's a fucking wreck, patchworked with bruises, ugly needle marks and surgical scars under his uniform. In this universe, Steve is a giant carved out of stone and Bucky is small and broken.

The bony hips and delicate hands he cherished have been replaced by the bulk and grace of a Greek statue, and Bucky can't get it out of his mind. He's been avoiding Steve as much as he can, slipping away so he won't have to watch him stutter over his words, won't have to look up and see the pity in Steve's eyes that he can't hide. But there are other reasons, too - reasons that make Bucky feel hot all over from the inside out, that make him want.

Agent Carter has helped with her discretion and careful words during Bucky's many debriefings - she's the only one besides the doctors who really knows what HYDRA did to him - but it's hard to watch the way her eyes follow Steve at every turn.

It's plain as day that Steve wants Peggy the way any hot-blooded man wants a woman; his eyes flicker with a quiet, searing need whenever she comes near. Steve thinks he's good at hiding it, but Bucky knows that look, because once upon a time, Steve looked at him that way.

Back then, it had been so easy, and Bucky had been a damn fool. He'd taken what he had for granted, all those nights he and Steve had shared skin and sweat and silent promises they were too afraid to say out loud. Taken for granted that what they had would always be there, that Steve would always be there when he needed him.

Now it's gone, and Bucky is the one who burns on the inside when he has to watch Steve and Peggy together. Bucky might be a shadow of the man he once was: hard, cold and devoid of the easy laughter and jokes that used to trip off his tongue, but one thing that's never changed is how he feels about Steve. And he knows he isn't good enough for him, not anymore, but he wants to try.

God help him, he wants to try. But he's too afraid to give Steve a choice when it doesn't seem like much of a choice at all.

He can't fault Steve for wanting Peggy; once upon a time she would have been the sort of dame Bucky would have been falling over himself trying to score a date with. She is whole and Steve can love her without fear and Bucky wants that for him, he does, but -

_No._

Bucky's always had a selfish streak a mile wide when it comes to Steve, and the weeks he spent on that factory table - crying and moaning when he was conscious, and living a waking nightmare when he wasn't - have put things into perspective for him.

He _needs_ Steve, because he's fucked-up, damaged beyond hope of repair and if he could just kiss him, feel that warm body pressed into his, then maybe he could forget about it for a second. He needs him, and it isn't fair that Peggy Carter gets Steve when Bucky needs him so much more.

Tossing back his eighth whiskey - it's having no effect anyway - Bucky blinks away the stinging moisture in his eyes and stumbles his way to the toilets. His stomach roils at the stench of old piss, and he nearly bumps into another soldier weaving his way past the urinals.

Bucky locks himself in the cubicle, puts the seat down and sits there, head in his heads, trying to ignore the way his heart's pounding and his nerves are jangling. He won't have long before Steve sends someone to look for him.

Steve's not stupid - never was - and he's picked up on the fact that Bucky is finding it difficult to be around him right now. His way of dealing with it is making sure that others keep tabs on Bucky. Dugan and the boys haunt his steps, offer him cigarettes, invite him to play cards. Bucky smiles wide and easy, tells them he's fine and maybe they believe him and maybe they don't - he doesn't like to give it too much thought.

Bucky needs to take the edge off. Listening, he can hear there's no-one in the bathroom and figures he might have a couple of minutes, if he's lucky. He fumbles in his pocket for the cheap postcard, folded carelessly, and smooths it out.

The full-colour rendering of Captain America stares out at him, all brawn and righteousness, but Bucky only sees Steve. He's hard already just thinking about the body under the uniform, the body he once mapped with hands and mouth and knew as well as his own, that has now become something entirely unfamiliar.

Jerking off to a Captain America postcard in a filthy bar bathroom; if this isn't rock bottom, Bucky isn't quite sure what is. He'd find it in himself to be ashamed if he wasn't shaking so badly, on the verge of breaking into howling agony right here on the tiled floor. This is better: at least it'll allow him some semblance of self-preservation.

Unsteadily, Bucky gets to his feet, flips up the toilet seat. Shoving a hand down his pants, he unbuttons his fly carelessly, makes a fist around his cock and strokes himself roughly, not wanting to drag it out for a second. He keeps his gaze on the postcard in his other hand, stares at the smiling symbol of heroism who used to be his best friend and tries not to think about the fact he's not seen that smile on Steve's face since Brooklyn.

When he comes against the porcelain, shuddering, he bites the inside of his cheek so as not to make a sound and tastes blood. Afterwards, he doesn't exactly feel better, but a calmness has settled into him, and he'll take it. He shoves the postcard back in his pocket, tucks his dirty secrets away with it.

Flushing the toilet, he bangs out of the stall. Bucky stares at his reflection in the grimy mirror while he rinses his hands and attempts to flatten his hair down. He doesn't scrub up too bad, all things considered: might even be able to call himself rakish, if he was feeling kind. It's a few shades beyond a total wreck, at least.

His absence appears to have gone unnoticed. Bucky goes back to his solitary place at the bar and signals for another whiskey. Around the corner, he can hear Dugan and the others laughing raucously. He knows what Steve is asking of them, has been trying not to think about it all night.

Then Steve is sliding onto the bar stool beside him, and Bucky knows what he has come to ask of him. It takes everything in him, but somehow, Bucky summons up the ghost of that cocky kid from Brooklyn he used to be. Steve plays along, smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes, but he's making an effort, and Bucky appreciates that.

Bucky's never thought of himself as good.

Not like Steve, who will let his best friend give him the cold shoulder after he risked it all to pull him out of enemy territory.

When Bucky answers Captain America's call, it's not because he's brave or self-sacrificing; he just needs Steve, and if he can't have him the way he once did, then he'll fight at his side and pretend like it's enough. What Bucky wants is to go home, for everything to stop hurting, to not feel the stabbing ache in his chest every time he looks at Steve and is reminded of everything he can't have.

Following Steve was never a choice. Wanting him was never a choice, either, and Bucky did it without a thought, with his sinner's heart that's never known better. The problem is, he still wants Steve as much he ever did.

That's the knife that cuts deepest of all.

 

**4.**

_Kiev, 1978_

The Soldier peers down the scope of his rifle and adjusts the angle by a few degrees. He can see the open window of the apartment building across the street, the flutter of the curtains in the breeze.

He shifts on his stomach, barely breathing. It's been two days already. He checks his watch. Another hour to go, but he must be alert in case of unknown variables.

The Level Four target is due back at 1800; the light is fading in the sky, casting greyish shadows over the stark landscape of concrete.

Not that the Soldier notices. He is here for the mission. He does not notice the discomfort in his limbs from keeping them locked stiff for so long, or the unpleasant smell of the bodies from the next room. It had been regrettable that the building he identified as an ideal position had not been unoccupied, as his initial sweep indicated. It was messy, and his handlers do not like messy. No matter. He will clean up after himself before he leaves.

When the target finally arrives at 1923 hours, light flickering on at the opposite window, he is not alone. Perhaps the woman with him is a relation; he greets her with warmth and a kiss on both cheeks. The Soldier has seen the photos of the target in the mission file he was given earlier and has memorised the information. He is twenty-six years old and suspected of selling Soviet intelligence to the Americans. When on a mission, the Soldier is given as little background as possible, in order that he can focus closely on the details, but he knows this much.

The mission file did not show the way the light catches on the young man's close-cropped blond hair, the proud jut of his jaw.

Seeing him stirs something inside the Soldier. And though he is a weapon, nothing more, he is suddenly flooded with a memory of straw-coloured hair that felt soft in his hands when he pushed it back off a sweaty forehead. It sparks an unknown hunger that swells in him and sends warmth throughout his body.

To his horror, the Soldier feels his cock stir; he's half-hard already. He knows it is nothing more than a physiological response, that he is stronger than this and he must simply ignore it.

He doesn't; he has always been weak.

With a frustrated hiss, he lets go of the rifle mount and rolls onto his side, keeping clear of the window. He flicks open the button of his pants with ease and takes himself in hand. It feels good, the sensation alien but pleasurable as he makes a tight fist and thrusts into it brutally, clenching his jaw against the sounds he is trying not to make.

His release is sudden and swift and though he can't explain it, in that moment, his mind fixates on a face he can't quite recall, a bright smile and warm skin he tracked with his fingertips. It makes something hurt inside his chest, because he thinks he might have been happy. He might have been _good_.

The Soldier's never thought of himself as good. But in that fleeting moment, he felt it.

He pants, faintly disgusted at the evidence of his weakness, and wipes his hand off on the dirty floor. He is an imperfect Asset, who should have known better than to compromise the mission like this with such base impulses.

Moving back to the window, he concentrates on the shot. It is more than two hours before the woman leaves and the man stands framed by his curtains, drinking a cup of coffee. He looks peaceful.

The Soldier squeezes the trigger and the man falls. He feels nothing.

 

**5.**

Bucky jerks awake, coughing. He coughs with the memory of ice in his lungs, sharp and cold and breath-stealing. It takes a second to register the sheets tangled around his legs, his sweat-soaked t-shirt, the soft give of the mattress at his back.

This is his bed, in the new Avengers facility. He is alive. He is James Buchanan Barnes, assassin, war hero, longest-serving prisoner of war in history. Man out of time. He should probably add insomniac to the list, too.

“Sergeant Barnes, do you require assistance?" JARVIS asks.

"No, thanks," Bucky snaps. JARVIS takes the hint and the faint orange glow fades as quickly as it came. Tony Stark's robot-computer-brain-thing might be impressive, but it still creeps Bucky out. He doesn't much care for its frequent intrusions, even though he knows that JARVIS has most likely been programmed to keep an eye on him, and he should probably be grateful for that.

Steve is only down the hall, but Bucky won't call him, won't burden him like that.

In the months he'd led Steve and the Falcon around the world with a hard-to-follow trail, not even sure why he was doing it, he'd started to remember. He once had sisters and a mother; he remembered the way they laughed, how he would tie their pigtails, the way his ma's kitchen in Brooklyn smelled like apple cake and pies when she had time to bake.

He'd lifted books from libraries, trying to find out more. There were biographies of the Howlies, accounts of their adventures that were highly sensationalised. Photos of Bucky were in those pages. He recognised himself in the ones from the war, the posed shots of him holding his rifle steady at Captain America's side. It was easy to see himself in the young man with a cold, sharp gaze, whose boyish looks belied that he was already an experienced killer.

Harder to fathom were the one or two pictures from before, of a boy who smiled with his whole heart, wearing a uniform and a hat tipped at a jaunty angle. James Buchanan Barnes was a ladies' man, the books said. Bucky's memories of that exist, but he struggles to make the pieces fit. He remembers dancing with girls, the way their waxy lipstick would get all over his face when he kissed them, how he sometimes slipped his hands under their skirts if he could get away with it. Sometimes they touched him as well, with small, delicate hands, but maybe he's getting that part wrong. Steve had hands like that, too.

Two months ago, Steve had found him, not long after Sokovia was left in ruins. Correction: Bucky had  _let_ Steve find him, in an old HYDRA base, shaking and covered in blood after he'd used a single knife to gut every scientist and thug on the premises. Steve had looked at him with wide-eyed fear, but he'd held out a hand just the same, and Bucky couldn't help but take it.

He has gotten better at hiding it, but sometimes Steve still looks at Bucky like that, as if he's a broken wind-up toy who can't be fixed. And maybe he can't, but the silent, aching way Steve watches him sometimes is almost more than he can bear.

Bucky's never thought of himself as good.

Not like Steve Rogers, who threw his shield into a river for a fallen man and bet his life on the slim hope Bucky would remember him.

His stomach lurches, but not from nausea: from _wanting._

Bucky throws back the covers and gets out of bed, pads to the bathroom with a mind to splash some cool water on his face. His face stares back at him from the mirror, sweaty and unkempt and he hasn't shaved in a few days: it's not the most attractive picture.

Sleeping is still the hardest thing. He struggles to make it through even a few uninterrupted hours without nightmares, and being awake in the small hours is a familiar routine.

Bucky peels his t-shirt and sweatpants off and gets in the shower, turns the dial up to burning hot. These days, he likes his showers near-scalding, and as long as he can get away with. He takes pleasure in ignoring JARVIS's gentle reminders about use of hot water and the environment, because it's such a luxury, one of the few things he has just for himself in this strange place that doesn't quite feel like home.

He stands under the spray and lets his muscles start to relax, trying not to listen to the unpleasant drumming sound of the water on his metal arm. Leaning forward, he lets the hot water hit his lower back and feels the knots at the base of his spine uncoiling.

At the same time, Bucky becomes aware that he's getting hard. That's one other thing he likes about showers; it's the perfect place to do this and the water can wash away any evidence. It's been happening more and more lately, and though it's a little embarrassing to admit, there's only ever one person who occupies his thoughts.

 _Steve._ He thinks about Steve's body, the sinuous grace of his movements, the muscles that Steve thinks nothing of showing off under those painfully tight t-shirts. His smile, still Steve though it has a sad edge, the short hair that Bucky remembers running his hands through. The strangest part of it is that he can only imagine; he never got to have Steve, not in that new body.

While the Howling Commandos raided HYDRA bases, living every moment on a knife edge, Bucky spent most of the time pretending that every fibre of his being didn't ache for Steve. Steve never gave any indication that he wanted anything more than friendship, even on cold nights when they shared a tent and he pressed Bucky close to him to keep him warm, ignoring his protests.

Bucky had hoped all the same, had clung to those memories of their passionate nights in Brooklyn, because even if Steve could forget, he couldn't. A few times, their faces had been close enough in the darkness that Bucky could have closed the distance in a second, could have kissed Steve senseless until he forgot they were supposed to be just friends. He could have made Steve want him, just for an hour. But he didn't; it would have only made it hurt more afterwards, when Steve would inevitably remind him that things couldn't be that way between them anymore. Bucky had thought of Peggy, strong and beautiful and brave, waiting for Steve, and he'd locked his feelings away. He might have been selfish, but he wasn't a total jerk, when it came down to it.

Thing is, he's always been a fool for Steve. That's the problem.

Bucky lets a soft sound escape him when he palms his cock with a wet hand, leans back against the shower tiles. These days, it's nice to take his time over it, let it build until it feels really good. This is his bathroom, there's no one to catch him and Catholic guilt doesn't hold much sway over Bucky these days: when you've seen hell, lived in its grasp for more than seventy years, you stop being afraid of it.

So it's without much shame that he conjures up Steve's face in his mind. He imagines Steve's fingers wrapped around the bed frame, powerful thighs either side of his hips as he fucks into him. Back then, Steve never fucked him - it was always the other way around - but Bucky is filled with the need to know what it would feel like.

Panting, Bucky starts to stroke himself faster, pressing the metal hand into the shower wall to steady himself. If he's honest, he wishes it was Steve right now, those strong fingers curled around his dick, but this is better than nothing. He'll take it, because he's got Steve back, the best friend he's ever had, and even if secret, dirty fantasies in the shower are all he gets of him, somehow it will be enough. Bucky can make it enough.

There's heat rising in his body, not just from the warm shower and he squeezes his hand tighter, tension pooling low in his abdomen as he works his cock harder. Then he's spending himself against the slick tiles with a grunt, shaking through a powerful orgasm. He draws it out with a few long, slow pulls and turns off the water.

Bucky's never thought of himself as good.

He's never been good at lying to himself, either. The realisation hits him like a punch to the gut: nothing less than Steve looking at him like he did when they were kids - like Bucky was his whole heart right there - is ever going to be enough.

Bucky knows then he's well and truly fucked.

 

**(+1.)**

“Mmm.” Steve stirs in his sleep, shifting under the covers to throw the heavy weight of his arm over Bucky.

Bucky's been sharing Steve's bed for the past three months. It was never a discussion. He'd made a throwaway comment one day about sleeping badly, and Steve had stared at him with a clenched jaw, an old, stubborn look in his eyes that told Bucky he'd made up his mind already. That night, Steve moved some of Bucky's things into his quarters, making sure to bring the soft, snuggly fleece blanket he really liked, and Bucky couldn't say no.

It had been briefly awkward when they stared at each other across the bed, but Steve had thrown back the covers, pulled Bucky close and it didn't matter anymore, because they fit together just like they used to. Unfortunately, Bucky had woken later in the clutches of a nightmare, but this time, Steve's fingers were in his hair, soothing him down. Bucky curled into his chest and burrowed into the warmth of Steve, the way he'd done in their tent in the war, and it was good. It helped.

Here in the warm, heated cocoon of the room, Bucky squirms against the iron grip of Steve's arm on him. Sometimes Steve can get a bit possessive and over-cuddly in his sleep, and there are times when Bucky has to shift away, because being held too tightly makes him anxious.

Then his ass comes into contact with Steve's dick in his sweatpants, pressed into him and completely hard. Morning wood is one thing, not something either of them can help, but it's the middle of the night. Eyes widening, Bucky shudders out a breath, feeling himself getting just as hard from the mere suggestion of Steve's interest, or at least his cock's interest. Steve shifts against him again, his hips grinding into Bucky's ass, solid and with definite intent.

Holding his body still and tense, Bucky considers. Of course Steve is asleep, lost in some heated dream and can't be held responsible for his actions, but all Bucky can think is that this isn't _fair._

There's no way he's getting back to sleep like this, not with white-hot need humming under his skin. Bucky wriggles out of Steve's arms and quietly shifts off the bed, with a mind to go and take care of himself quickly. He hopes that Steve's dreams will have turned to something less erotic by the time he gets back.

He's barely in the bathroom before he pushes his hand into his pants and yanks them down: he's wanting it that badly. His own hand is a relief, a muted one, but there's purchase to be found in the drag of his palm over his cock, in his clumsy, sweaty touch that's not a shade on having Steve, but as close as he can get.

It takes Bucky a second to realise he's making too much noise, and it's already too late. There's a sound from the other room and Steve bangs into the bathroom.

There it is. Bucky's caught red-handed, pants at his knees and one hand on his cock.

_Fuck._

Bucky freezes, takes his hand away, thinks he should pull his pants up but can't move to do it.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit, Steve, I'm sorry, should have locked the door, it's not -”

Steve's eyes are dark, feral with something Bucky has never seen, at least not since he can recall. He steps into his space, crowding him against the wall with big arms and big hands, and Bucky might be stronger, but Steve is taller, all powerful bulk and sinew, and he has the advantage here.

Bucky looks up at him, helpless and uncomfortable, because he's still bare-assed and Steve is fully clothed, pressing into him and unmistakeably hard.

“I heard you. You said my name,” Steve says, voice low and gravelly with sleep, but his eyes are bright and very much awake. He clearly knows exactly what he's saying, what he's doing, and that makes Bucky choke off a soft sound in his throat.

Bucky's a rabbit caught in the headlights, can't say a thing because he probably was murmuring Steve's name like an idiot. He nods, gulps but the next sound out of his mouth is lost, because Steve reaches down and takes him in hand.

Then Steve is pressing wet kisses to his throat as he ghosts fingers over his cock, nothing more than a teasing press. Bucky bites off a cry, and Steve pauses with a scrape of teeth on his ear.

“You want it?” Steve asks, and something shifts in his eyes as he draws back a little to look down at Bucky, fingers still clutching at the base of his cock. The garish fluorescent light glints off Steve's sandy-blond hair, and Bucky's stomach twists with how beautiful Steve is.

Though his brain hasn't entirely caught up to what's happening, one thing Bucky does know is that he wants this. He wants Steve to touch him right now, with cool bathroom tiles at his ass and warm fingers wound tight around his dick that are at once unfamiliar and everything he's ever known in one.

“Yeah,” he tells him, unabashed. “Never wanted anything more, pal.”

At that, Steve laughs, but he quickly regains his focus, grips Bucky's cock tighter and strokes him gently, his pace unhurried. It's not long before Bucky's pushing his hips up into Steve's hand, thrusting against him and the hand that Steve is pinning his metal arm to the wall with.

Wanting more, Bucky leans up and kisses Steve, stretching up a hand to grab at the back of his neck and draw him closer. It breaks Steve's concentration for half a second, but then the pace picks up again, and he's kissing Bucky like he hasn't kissed him in more than seventy years, wet and filthy and open-mouthed at the same time his hand works at him.

He strokes fast and hard, and Bucky's eyes fly open as Steve breaks the kiss.

“Look at me,” says Steve, flushed and panting.

Bucky does as he's told. In a brightly lit bathroom around three am, Steve Rogers looks at Bucky like he's the world, and Bucky knows right then he's already lost.

Steve starts to work Bucky's cock faster, giving it to him harder, rougher: the way he's always liked it. Bucky moans quietly, his thighs shaking, every part of him tense and waiting.

It's not how Bucky ever expected this to happen, and it's not perfect. His buttocks are starting to feel really cold in an unpleasant way, and Steve's weight is forcing him painfully into the wall in a way that's sure to leave tile marks all over Bucky's ass. Not that he cares. None of it matters one bit, nothing matters except Steve, Steve,  _Steve._

He arches into Steve's touch, breathing in tiny little bursts punctuated by moans. Steve's chest heaves against his, the movements of his hand becoming slightly erratic, and he's clearly just as breathless as Bucky feels.

Bucky can't look away, not for a second. It takes nothing more than that look and a sharp press of Steve's palm before Bucky comes like he's been turned inside out, with a sudden gasp and a mutter of Steve's name against his lips.

Steve brings him down gently, kissing at his throat, his neck, the shell of his ear.

The pressure of his hand releases Bucky's arm from the wall. Steve presses a kiss to the cool metal and it makes Bucky's throat feel tight, makes his eyes wet.

Bucky glances down to see a dark spot spreading out on the front of Steve's sweatpants - and there's a swell of pride in Bucky, if he's honest, that Steve got off just from touching him. “Ah. Saves me a job, I guess.”

Steve shoves him gently and moves to the sink to rinse his hands, but there's a smile.

It's the same moment Bucky starts to feel a little foolish, sticky and damp with sweat, pressed into the wall like he needs the leverage to stay standing (he kind of does). He gratefully accepts the wad of tissue Steve hands him and draws his pants back up, tossing the paper into the toilet.

Abruptly, Steve opens the door and goes back into the bedroom, leaving Bucky no choice but to follow. His stomach jumps as he wonders what's going to happen next, but then he sees that Steve has only yanked open a drawer to swap out his stained sweatpants. The bathroom light's still on, casting a faint, eerie glow over the rumpled sheets on their bed.

When Steve has changed, he sits on the mattress and motions for Bucky to join him from where he's hovering, tense and unsure in the doorway.

He sits down and immediately Steve's fingers cup his jaw, his hand warm on Bucky's cheek. Bucky almost doesn't want to look at him, because he just wants to stay wrapped in this bubble forever and not have to talk about anything, ever. But he can't do that, not this time.

Determined not to be a coward for once, Bucky grits his teeth and forces himself to meet Steve's eyes.

“Didn't think you wanted this,” Bucky says, his heart beating like he's just run ten miles in one stretch.

Steve groans and there's that look again, the one that makes Bucky feel naked though he's fully dressed. His fingers tighten on Bucky's jaw, slip down to the delicate skin of his throat.

“You think I haven't _always_ wanted this?” Steve's tone is soft, but his words are full of conviction.

Bucky's mouth goes dry. He can feel every throb of his rapid pulse against Steve's fingers.

“I remember before the war, what we used to get up to in that tiny bed of yours,” he tells Steve, a surge of warmth in his chest at the mere memory of it. “Just didn't seem like you remembered, after.”

There's wetness in Bucky's eyes again, and fuck, he's so choked up he might be about to start crying. This is not the way he wants the conversation to go, but he might not have a choice.

Steve's hand travels down his neck. The pad of his thumb massages the delicate, ticklish place where Bucky's neck meets his shoulders, and he huffs a breath against Bucky's skin before he answers.

“I remembered,” Steve admits quietly. “I used to dream about it, the way your mouth felt on my cock.” There's a faint noise - it might be embarrassment, or a resigned sigh - but Steve keeps talking, and his breathing goes shallow in Bucky's ear. “The way you used to spread me open on that bed and fuck me so good it broke me apart.”

“Nnngh.” Bucky doesn't intend to make that noise at all, it just slips out. Steve laughs against his shoulder and suddenly the room seems hot and too small for the both of them.

“Pretty much,” Steve agrees, a casual hand stretching up to tousle at the sweaty hair curling at the nape of Bucky's neck.

Another time, Bucky might care how he looks to Steve, unshaven and sleep-sweaty and wrecked, but right now he doesn't. Right now, Bucky - or at least his sex-addled brain - thinks Steve is more or less perfect, that _this_ is more than he's ever dreamed of and he'll take every piece of it.

“I should have said something back then,” Bucky says, voice heavy with regret for all the time they wasted on pretending. “But you had Peggy, and I didn't want to presume. Thought it was maybe just one of those things you grew out of, and I didn't.”

Steve shakes his head, drawing the covers up to tuck over their legs. “You're a real dumbass, Buck, you know that?”

Bucky can't argue with that, but he still can't suppress a small growl.

There's something sad tugging at Steve's smile when he says, “Look, I wanted to - so many times, but we were never really alone and I got scared for you. Brooklyn was one thing, but what they did to guys like us in the army, I -” He breaks off, as if suddenly aware he's babbling.

“I get it, Steve. I get it.” Bucky sucks in a deep breath, because he's just remembered that they woke to a country where guys walk down the street and kiss openly, and everyone is pretty much okay with it, and if they aren't, at least they don't lock you up for it anymore. He'll take that.

“Point is, no-one's ever held a candle to you,” Steve says, slow and deliberate, and his arm darts out to pull Bucky closer. “Not since we were wearing short pants and you were pulling me out of fights.”

“Well, you always pulled me into 'em. What was I supposed to do?” Bucky leans into Steve and grins crookedly at him. For a second he's that cocky little shit from Brooklyn again, the person Bucky doesn't exactly remember but the muscles of his face certainly do.

Something in Bucky's chest loosens, the sharp tightness that's lived under his ribs since, well - 1943, probably. He feels light, warm with Steve's words and his touch, the memories of so many lonely nights tinged with the knowledge that despite everything, Steve never stopped wanting him, the way Bucky's _always_ wanted Steve.

“C'mere.” He shuffles into Steve's side, twists his head to kiss him, a soft press of lips that stands in for other things that Bucky will definitely say when he's feeling more coherent and less exhausted.

Steve rests his forehead on Bucky's, briefly, then lets out a jaw-splitting yawn.

Bucky pulls at the covers, arranging them over top of them and lies back to rest his head on the pillows. Steve slides an arm around him, lines his body up against Bucky's back in a curve of warmth that makes him sigh. There's nothing remarkable about it, and that's the best part, for Bucky, because it feels like he and Steve could do this for the rest of their lives.

“Lights off,” Steve says faintly and the bathroom light obediently flickers off, plunging them into welcoming darkness.

Bucky's never thought of himself as good.

Perhaps that doesn't matter: probably, it never did. Long ago, Bucky had Steve to be good for the both of them, before time and ice took decades from them. Maybe he'll never be good like Steve is - there are sins in the Winter Soldier's past that Bucky will never find absolution for - but he can be good _for_ Steve, can make him happy _:_ it's a strangely empowering thought.

Bucky is starting to understand that somehow, every messed-up, flawed inch of him has been good enough for Steve all along.

“Night, Buck,” Steve murmurs in his ear, with a brush of fingers where they rest comfortably on Bucky's stomach.

“Good night, Steve.”

For once, everything is good. Bucky can't ask for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Generation X and Billy Idol, obviously. I did wrestle with calling this the "Bucky Barnes jerks off a lot and has a ton of feelings" fic, but that didn't trip off the tongue quite so nicely.


End file.
